“Until recently you were working cold cases. If the double jeopardy verdict goes, there’ll be a lot of ‘archaeological digs’ to be organized. Who better than someone with cold-case experience?”

“I prefer my bodies with a bit of warmth in them.”

Fox gave a shrug. “Your funeral,” he said.

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning you’re back in CID but the clock is against you—two or three more years and you’ll hit the retirement wall again. That wouldn’t matter if you were working for the Solicitor General.”

“I know plenty of ex-cops who work for lawyers—they never seem particularly happy about it.”

“Doing precognitions, you mean? That’s not what this would be like.”

“It would be like death,” Rebus stated, switching the radio back on.

“Something you should refrain from saying at our next destination,” Fox advised, as a Waterboys song started playing.

Professor Norman Cuttle was resident in a care home overlooking the greenery of Colinton Dell. A trolley was serving tea and biscuits in the TV room. Cuttle rose slowly from his chair to greet his two visitors, then suggested they “repair” to the garden, where it would be quieter.

Quieter and chillier. Not that Rebus was complaining. He’d had to remove both coat and jacket upon entering the care home’s reception area, a member of staff explaining that the heating had to be kept full blast or there were complaints. He remembered the suffocating warmth of Dod Blantyre’s bungalow, and Maggie’s occasional need to escape.

The same staff member provided a tartan travel rug for Professor Cuttle, wrapping it around his legs and chest. The professor was seated on a new-looking wooden bench. There was a plaque on it, identifying the donor as someone who had lived at the care home.

And died there, Rebus presumed.

Cuttle was a bit stiffer than Albert Stout, and required a hearing aid. He was a lot more skeletal, too, his skull all but visible through his paper-thin blue-veined skin. Rebus remembered him as a gentle man who took great care with the cadavers in his possession, respecting them as though family members were gathered at his shoulder. He apologized for not remembering Rebus.

“We didn’t meet often,” Rebus said. “I got to know your successor a bit better.”

“Professor Gates?”

Rebus nodded and buttoned up his coat. There was a stiff breeze from the north, the cloud thickening. With Fox and Cuttle taking up the bench, there was nowhere for him to sit, so he was standing to one side, leaving the woodland view unobstructed.

“We’re here about Douglas Merchant,” Fox nudged.

“Yes, I’ve been thinking about him. It was on the news about Billy Saunders disappearing.”

“You did the postmortem examination.”

“With Professor Donner—he was the senior pathologist.”